


Safe in My Arms

by thornmallow



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 22:32:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thornmallow/pseuds/thornmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was always his mother's favorite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe in My Arms

Asgard’s royal palace was vast, replete with grand halls draped in silver- and gold-threaded tapestries, with spacious bedchambers kept warm by shimmering braziers stacked with embers the shape and color of mottled jewels. Some of its passageways stretched on for a mile or more, connecting the palace with its subterranean network of vaults and dungeons.

The spires cut the sky like so many spears, and the palace’s silhouette dominated the landscape from the ground to the constellations. Of course, every room had corners, just as staircases had strange twists, and a corridor’s secret turn sometimes led messengers to an unexpected destination.

When he lacked for companionship or a task, which was often in his able-minded and lonely life, Loki searched for these forgotten paths. He was yet fresh in his adolescence by the time he had catalogued most of them, and he put the knowledge to use when he wanted to escape his brother’s well-intention blundering and find a respite from the way the other citizens of Asgard looked at him.

He had fled those looks earlier today, had torn down the palace halls until he reached the expansive library. Several years ago, while collecting books for study, he had accidentally trigged a long unused switch that caused one of the shelves to sink into the carpet, revealing a small recess that contained a bed, a worktable, and, naturally, quite a lot of old books. Loki sat among these things, feeling far more at home than he did in his place around the feasting table, where he ate little and said less.

He sat on the edge of the bed with one of the books open in his lap, turning the pages without reading any of the text. He liked the feel of the aged paper between his fingers, yellowed and crackly and in danger of crumbling at his touch. But his eyes swam with tears, blurring his vision as he fought to hold them back, and he had to stop himself from tearing the page from the book’s spine—just for the feeling of destroying something that could not fight him back.

He was not alone in his misery for long, however. Less than a quarter of an hour had passed before he heard familiar footsteps outside, followed by a gentle sigh, and then the grinding of gears as another hand pressed the lost switch.

“May I come in?” his mother said, from behind the door.

Loki rubbed frantically at his tear-stained face. He tried to reply with dignity, but his voice was strangled. “Yes, of course, mother.”

She knew where he went when he ran, always. He didn’t know how, and never questioned it, besides; if anyone was to visit him when he was in hiding, it should be her. The door opened and Frigga swept in, her gauzy skirts unsettling the dust that coated the floor. In those days she wore her hair unbound, let it fall in pearl-strung, honey-colored curls around her shoulders and neck. Frigga sat beside her son on the bed and peered at the book.

“A Short Treatise on the Complexities of Teleportation,” she said. “And you’re nearly done with it, too.”

“I … haven’t gotten very far today,” he muttered, shutting the book on his thumb. He stared at the ragged cover; the embossed title was faded, the spine weak from years of service.

“I knew the man who wrote that tome,” she said. “He was exceedingly clever.” Frigga kissed the top of Loki’s hair. “But not half so clever as you, child.”

“Mother,” Loki said, blushing. “You’re the only one who thinks that.”

“Surely not,” Frigga said. “Your father agrees, and your brother, too, even if they are not … direct … about showing it.”

“Thor’s friends were quite direct a moment ago,” Loki said. “I thought they were going to kill me.”

“Well,” Frigga said, gently, “not everyone has your advanced sense of the absurd, Loki.”

“I didn’t mean for their practice swords to turn to corn husks,” he said. “I was trying to cast a sharpening spell. It just—didn’t work out. And then they wouldn’t listen to me, they just shouted, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything.”

His shoulders began to shake. He hunched into himself, held the book to his forehead to hide the new wave of tears. 

Frigga slipped her arms around her son’s waist and held him close against her, murmuring. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“A little,” he said.

“I think that turning swords to corn husks is wonderful,” she said. “And not easy to do, even as an accident. I set them all to rights, Loki … but I laughed before I did it.”

Loki sniffed, and allowed himself a smile. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Frigga let him go, and rose from the bed. “Now, you’ve missed lunch. Why don’t you let me fix you that blueberry tart you love so well?”

Loki slid off the bed. He took his mother’s hand, and allowed her to lead him from the library, but—when they were halfway to the kitchen—he said, “Mother, the last time you tried to bake, you burned half the afternoon’s breadstuffs. Didn’t the servants ban you from helping them?”

“Well, when I said let me fix you a tart, I really meant let Ragnhild fix it while we eat the freshly picked blueberries,” Frigga replied airily.

Loki’s smile turned to a true grin. He squeezed his mother’s hand, and forgot for the moment that he had no one else in Asgard who seemed to understand him—which was, of course, Frigga’s intent.

**Author's Note:**

> For my friend, Reg, who roleplays Frigga wonderfully!


End file.
